plaster. Before Mrs.Taylor had shown him the pamphlet, she had mentioned the End Times, which Dane had heard about at church, too, and he thought both Mrs. Taylor’s talk and the church talk scary. But he knows now, after seeing the pamphlet, that before, he hadn’t truly believed. He hadn’t truly believed that it could possibly happen before he was well dead and gone until Mrs. Taylor showed it to him in writing. And it’s not just some old funny-sounding verse in a beat-up Bible, it’s all recently written, like a magazine or newspaper, new, and after he saw it there, everything changed. After the pamphlet, the
thought started coming all the time in Dane’s head: “I’m only twelve years old. And I’m going to see the End of the World.”
Finally Dane backs out of the bedroom, keeping close watch on the pamphlet, then he’s clear, he breathes, and he calls to the kitchen, “Nothing fell.” His voice like a piece of ripped plastic caught on a branch and waving in wind. He goes in to use the bathroom but can’t make anything happen, and he’s all the way back to his tuna bowl when it comes to him: since he told her about the plaster, Mrs. Taylor hasn’t spoken a word back.
Dane freezes. Her silence means she’s thinking about something. Given the blast, he has a good idea about what.
“You know last fall two of em drownded over at Arnette? A woman and a teenage boy in a car?”
Dane swallows. He shakes his head.
“Yeah, they put the families on our prayer list. They were driving to church, downstream of one of these things we have in here.”
Even though it doesn’t need any more stirring, Dane whips his tuna and mayonnaise hard, the spoon ringing loud in the metal bowl. Mrs. Taylor sucks her spongy lungs full of air and lets loose a three-second sigh, the end with a tremor in it. He’s held off until now because he knows if God listens to prayers at all anymore, He listens only to a certain number of them. You better be careful, ration them out. But, finally, he can’t help it. He balls up a place behind his eyes.
God says nothing back.
“Here I’ve moved right back into it.” Mrs. Taylor sighs again, squeezing a crumpled napkin in her hand. “Thirty years later, and I’m right back in it. That was Pittston, this is Lyon. But one company or another’s bound to drown me before I die a natural death.” Then Mrs. Taylor reaches out her hands and grips each corner of the table, the skin purpling where the wedding ring sinks in.
“Dooley never wanted to talk about it, you know. He’d get up and
walk right out of the room.” She always says this, and when she does, Dane always feels close to Dooley, since walk right out of the room is what Dane wants to do. But Dane is the help, not the husband. “A lot of em,” she goes on, “just heard the roar and looked outside and seen that black wall of water a-coming straight at their houses. But we was further down the hollow. It had room to spread a little, you see, by the time it got to us. It was a Saturday morning, around eight o’clock, and me and the kids was sleeping in a little. Dooley wasn’t home.
“He was coming off hoot owl so he was one of the ones saw it happen. Actually watched the dam break. Now can you imagine, standing up there and seeing that dam go with your family sleeping in your house down below it? Just imagine that,” and Dane imagines. Not standing at the drift of Buffalo Creek Mining Company in a cold February rain twenty-eight years ago, but standing in Mrs. Taylor’s backyard in a warmish one last month. “He tried to call us—all the men coming off that shift tried to call their families—but the lines was already down. It happened that fast. A lot of people just heard the noise and saw that black wall, but we was staying at Braeholm, further down the creek. What woke me was those folks who’d been driving up the hollow and seen the water coming at them, then threw their cars around and tried to outrun it,
thought started coming all the time in Dane’s head: “I’m only twelve years old. And I’m going to see the End of the World.”
Finally Dane backs out of the bedroom, keeping close watch on the pamphlet, then he’s clear, he breathes, and he calls to the kitchen, “Nothing fell.” His voice like a piece of ripped plastic caught on a branch and waving in wind. He goes in to use the bathroom but can’t make anything happen, and he’s all the way back to his tuna bowl when it comes to him: since he told her about the plaster, Mrs. Taylor hasn’t spoken a word back.
Dane freezes. Her silence means she’s thinking about something. Given the blast, he has a good idea about what.
“You know last fall two of em drownded over at Arnette? A woman and a teenage boy in a car?”
Dane swallows. He shakes his head.
“Yeah, they put the families on our prayer list. They were driving to church, downstream of one of these things we have in here.”
Even though it doesn’t need any more stirring, Dane whips his tuna and mayonnaise hard, the spoon ringing loud in the metal bowl. Mrs. Taylor sucks her spongy lungs full of air and lets loose a three-second sigh, the end with a tremor in it. He’s held off until now because he knows if God listens to prayers at all anymore, He listens only to a certain number of them. You better be careful, ration them out. But, finally, he can’t help it. He balls up a place behind his eyes.
God says nothing back.
“Here I’ve moved right back into it.” Mrs. Taylor sighs again, squeezing a crumpled napkin in her hand. “Thirty years later, and I’m right back in it. That was Pittston, this is Lyon. But one company or another’s bound to drown me before I die a natural death.” Then Mrs. Taylor reaches out her hands and grips each corner of the table, the skin purpling where the wedding ring sinks in.
“Dooley never wanted to talk about it, you know. He’d get up and
walk right out of the room.” She always says this, and when she does, Dane always feels close to Dooley, since walk right out of the room is what Dane wants to do. But Dane is the help, not the husband. “A lot of em,” she goes on, “just heard the roar and looked outside and seen that black wall of water a-coming straight at their houses. But we was further down the hollow. It had room to spread a little, you see, by the time it got to us. It was a Saturday morning, around eight o’clock, and me and the kids was sleeping in a little. Dooley wasn’t home.
“He was coming off hoot owl so he was one of the ones saw it happen. Actually watched the dam break. Now can you imagine, standing up there and seeing that dam go with your family sleeping in your house down below it? Just imagine that,” and Dane imagines. Not standing at the drift of Buffalo Creek Mining Company in a cold February rain twenty-eight years ago, but standing in Mrs. Taylor’s backyard in a warmish one last month. “He tried to call us—all the men coming off that shift tried to call their families—but the lines was already down. It happened that fast. A lot of people just heard the noise and saw that black wall, but we was staying at Braeholm, further down the creek. What woke me was those folks who’d been driving up the hollow and seen the water coming at them, then threw their cars around and tried to outrun it,
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